The Trigger Factor
by Kiera Kingsley
Summary: Something very odd is happening to Eames.
1. Chapter 1

Eames nestled her head in her hand, a few tousled strands of hair slipping through her fingers. It was a drowsy sort of evening; the sky was thick with heavy clouds, and the trees were sighing gently in the soft wind.  
  
She trailed her spoon in a lazy spin amid the bubbles of frothy foam, and then took a sip of her coffee--still hot enough to scorch the tongue. She leaned back in her chair and stretched out her legs; the café was tiny, a crowd of tables and a clutter of chairs squeezed into a tight spot, but quiet.  
  
The doorbell chimed and the door swung open behind her, wood knocking hollowly on wood as the hinges squeaked. A tall man wearing a thick black overcoat and heavy, clumping boots entered, going past her in silence as he strode up to the counter.  
  
Eames mentally shrugged and settled down in her chair again, idly leafing through a stray newspaper scattered all over the table. The pages rustled as she flipped back and forth, her head bent intently over the paper as she read.  
  
The man brushed past her as he went back out, clutching his coffee cup close. Something hard slipped out of his pocket and fell to the floor with a soft thud, flopping open and flinging loose change everywhere; it was his battered leather wallet.  
  
Eames looked up from her paper, caught a glimpse of it lying at her foot and bent to pick it up. She gathered up the scattered contents, stuffing small coins into a frayed pocket with tattered threads picked loose around its seams. One of the pennies gleamed in her hand and she held it up to the light to examine it.  
  
The year stamped on the edge of the coin read, in thick engraved letters, 1923, and the face on the penny was that of President Roosevelt. Eames stared at it in fascination, peering closely at the dull bronze shine. Why would somebody leave a valuable coin like that lying around in their pocket change?  
  
"Excuse me, sir," she said aloud, turning around, "you lost--" and stopped dead.  
  
Nothing looked familiar. Everything was brighter, more colourful, more alive. The entire café had changed; the tables were farther apart, the chairs a completely different style. Leafy potted plants stood and garishly vivid posters hung where there had been none before, and a wooden coat rack had appeared by the entrance. Swing music was playing loudly from a radio perched on the counter, the singer belting out mellow, rich tones as the saxophone purred and the bass murmured behind her. A whole flock of people was buzzing around inside, laughing, chattering, slurping from straws and clicking heels against the floor. The giggling, bubbly girls were wearing long skirts and old-fashioned pumps; several lean, sharp-faced men were in drab military uniform.  
  
Eames stood in silent shock, her eyes wide. She gripped her wrist hard, her fingers white and tense.  
  
Suddenly the man who had dropped his wallet reappeared in front of her, looking flushed and flustered. "Excuse me--er, miss--have you seen my wallet?"  
  
Eames numbly extended her hand as the girl to her left shrieked with laughter, slapping her knee. The man smiled widely, obviously relieved, and blew out a big sigh. "Thank you, miss, you've saved me!"  
  
He took the wallet and wedged it securely into his pocket; the world around him shifted and blurred. Eames blinked hard, drawing a long shaky breath, and looked all about her.  
  
Where the giggling girl had sat, a man was now rifling through some papers and answering his cell phone. The café was quiet and normal again, dim with twilight and filled with a warm silence.  
  
"See you around, then," the man said cheerfully, winking cheekily at her with his pale blue eyes. "Be careful now, miss Alexandra." And before she could react, he had slipped past the front door and vanished.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
More to come soon. Read and review, please :-) 


	2. Chapter 2

My beloved readers and fellow authors, forgive me for not updating or submitting reviews sooner. I've been in the hospital recently, and I wasn't able to get to a computer very often. but I'm back! :-D Thank you for your sweet reviews!  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Eames went straight home, crying and clinging to herself. She felt cold and sick inside, queasy and nauseous. Several times she was caught between a long, shuddering gasp and a low moan. The shivers were crawling down her spine, leaving icy, slimy trails.  
  
She faltered up the stairs to her apartment, her legs still shaky-weak and trembling uncontrollably underneath her, and managed to get inside before collapsing on the sofa. For the longest time she just sat there, curled up amid the cushions, tears streaming down her face.  
  
She still couldn't believe what had happened. Her mind was reeling from the absurdity of it; it was too surreal, too weird.  
  
Still clutching herself closely, her fingers tight with tension, Eames slipped off the couch and wobbled her way to the bathroom. Flicking the light on, she knelt unsteadily by the bathtub and turned the tap. Hot water came gushing out, the noise a steady roar above the silence. She relaxed as her white, strained face was bathed in drifts of warm steam, and shed her clothes.  
  
The bath was long and soothing; Eames let the heat soak deeply into her bones, closing her eyes and sighing with contentment. Afterwards, she rolled herself up in a fluffy towel and padded softly out into the hallway, looking for her bathrobe.  
  
It was hung up in an old wooden wardrobe that her elder sister had given to her as a birthday present, and she turned the handle to swing open the door; the brass hinges squeaked as she peered inside and fished out her bathrobe. She shrugged into it, poking her arms through the sleeves and tying the long sash in a loose knot, then put her hand on the door to shove it shut. She turned her head and looked down the hallway.  
  
Her walls had been painted a solid blue colour; now they were plastered over with a faded flowery paper. The carpet underneath her feet had been suddenly replaced by wooden flooring, and the overhead light had disappeared. Instead of the archway to the living room, there was a shut door bordered by softly glowing gas lamps.  
  
The closed door opened and a young girl dressed in a trailing green dress, encircled with ruffles and edged with lace, stepped out. Her brown hair wisped around her face in loose curls, pinned into place with glittering green jewels. She giggled and sang blithely to herself, her feathered fan beating the air softly like a bird's wing as she skipped around a few steps. She hummed a light and lively tune, spun about in a graceful pirouette as her skirts billowed around her--and stopped as she saw Eames. The girl then laughed aloud, her face bright with mirth and mischief, and made a sweeping curtsey to the detective.  
  
Stiff with shock, her face rigid and white, Eames retreated a few steps and let go of the cabinet door.  
  
The girl and her surroundings disappeared into thin air; the detective was standing in her own darkened hallway again. Eames's knees gave out beneath her and she sunk to the floor, shaking, shuddering, still staring into nothingness.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~ 


	3. Chapter 3

When Eames woke up the next morning, she was amazed at how dreamlike the day before seemed. Her memories, so sharp and distinct the night before, now felt fuzzy and blurred, blended with bits of dreams and swirls of random thoughts. All she could remember with absolute clarity was a pair of oddly pale blue eyes.   
  
She moved sluggishly, dragging her stiff limbs across the floor and stumbling into the bathroom to dunk herself into the shower. The warm water coursing across her back revived her, and she yawned her way through breakfast before slithering into clean clothes and yanking a brush through her tangled wet hair.   
  
Opting to take the subway to work, she headed outside and braced herself against the blast of cold air. The wind bit savagely at the tips of her ears and fingers as she shivered down the street, huddling into her thick black coat.   
  
The bus squealed to a stop just as she reached the station; she climbed aboard and settled herself into an empty seat. Sections of an old newspaper lay scattered everywhere, the faded and dirty sheets wrinkled and torn. She picked one part up, leafing through its pages.   
  
Fifteen or so minutes passed; she wavered to her feet and swayed with the bus's swinging motion, then tumbled forward as it jerked to a halt. She stepped off, tucking the newspaper under her arm as she headed towards the underground subway station.   
  
A man knocked into her, brushing brusquely past without a glance in her direction; Eames glared and readjusted her heavy bag over her shoulder. Something hard knocked against her hip, and she rummaged through her bag to find it. People flowed around her in a steady stream as she shuffled past papers and loose change, delving farther into her bag; finally, she fished it out--a lost library book.   
  
She cracked open the covers and flipped through a few pages, then closed the book and looked up.   
  
The jam and crush of traffic had disappeared; a horse-drawn carriage was clopping down the cobbled streets. Ladies in hoop skirts and ruffled silk dresses were gliding along with mincing steps; men in top hats and coattails were striding elegantly along. Clusters of ragged, threadbare beggars gathered around wooden barrels and empty crates, their thin hands and haggard faces grimy with dirt. Market stands and booths littered the thin sidewalks.   
  
"Dear God," Eames whispered, feeling faint. "Please, please, not again..."   
  
Clutching the book to her chest, she backed into a tall man with blond hair, a tweed suit, and brown loafers; he recoiled with a startled shout. "Sorry!" she cried. "Sorry, I--"   
  
"So you've got it!" Looking extremely irritated, the man pried the library book from her grasp before she could react. He had a bushy beard, long frizzy whiskers, and oddly pale blue eyes. "I've been looking all over for this, you have _no_ idea... how on Earth did _you_ pick this up... you _really_ ought to be more careful..."   
  
Still grumbling, he rudely shoved his way past her and jostled his way into the crowd; he stumbled into a teenager listening to his CD player and gave a disgusted snort of disdain. The teenager never batted an eyelash, his spiked head bobbing to the beat of his rap music.   
  
Eames blinked in bafflement, staring hard at where the strange man used to be, but he had vanished and she was in her own time again. The rumble of traffic and the blare of car horns had seeped back into her consciousness, with the drab colours of grey concrete and dull steel.   
  
She quickly sat down on a nearby bench and held her head in her hands, struggling to keep her breathing even. Her heart was racing and she was trembling all over; terrible pains were shivering through her unsteady legs.   
  
The paper she had picked up on the bus was still in one hand; she tore the pages open. Seconds later, she swore in exasperation; the newspaper was two days old. She folded it back up again, smoothing the creases and flattening the wrinkles, and trudged heavily over to the newspaper stand.   
  
Leaning down, one arm bent against a pole, she peered at the headlines--and stopped. The date on all the newspapers was the same: that of two days ago, March 17.   
  
A light hand tapped her softly on the shoulder. "Excuse me... Ms. Eames?"   
  
Eames whirled around to see a small, wiry old lady in a sports jacket and frayed sneakers, a headband around her frosted white curls and a warm scarf tucked around her neck. "If you're done with that paper, may I see it?" the lady asked politely in her quiet voice, her pale blue eyes beaming with gentle kindness.   
  
Numb, Eames stiffly passed the paper to the old lady. "Thank you so much... I really do appreciate this." The lady patted Eames's hands, smiling sweetly, and then walked off.   
  
Eames looked back down at the newspaper stand, and saw that the date was now two days ahead--that day's date, March 19.   



	4. Chapter 4

I feel horrible about my prolonged absence, but I can safely say that I'm back and healthy--and still writing. Please forgive me; I hope you like the next part. 

As science fiction as this story sounds, it may be possible in real life. The fact that Eames's time slips occur only when she's in contact with a certain object--i.e. the doorknob, the newspaper, the wallet, the book--is based on the psychometric hypothesis, first proposed by Dr. Joseph Rodes Buchanan of the Covington Medical Institute after several experiments (see for more details). However, this story includes a twist on the hypothesis that is purely my own, which you'll see in the upcoming chapters.

And finally, happy Easter or Passover, whichever you celebrate :-) 

***

The cell phone in Eames's pocket rang and she shrieked out loud, jolting violently. Everyone in the street whirled around to stare at her and she quickly shrank into a corner, whipping out her phone with trembling hands. "Who is it?" she demanded shakily.

"Eames!" The explosive rush of relief on the other end was Goren's. "God, where have you been? It's one in the afternoon! We've been trying to reach you all morning—Eames? Eames, are you OK?"

Her nerves completely unstrung, Eames had burst out in a disjointed scream of hysterical laughter that quickly disintegrated into shuddering sobs. She could only wail in response, clutching the phone close as she sunk to the ground. A small crowd was gathering around her, mostly of concerned pedestrians who offered her tissues and spoke in soothing, gentle voices. 

"Eames? Eames!" Goren was yelling over the phone. "What happened? What's wrong?"

Eames launched herself to her feet, nearly falling over, and ran. She tore down the sidewalk, past the startled and disbelieving cluster of people, past the signs and shops and stands. Everything faded to a blur as she sped away, tears coursing down her face and her lips stretched back in a silent, keening cry. 

Finally she stumbled to a stop, her swollen eyes burning and her breath grating harshly in her dry throat. She panted heavily as she dropped to the ground in a gradual collapse, her knees doubling up to her chest and her head buried in her arms. The concrete of the street felt cold and smooth below her. 

She stayed there for a long while. The sounds of the distant traffic seeped slowly through her awareness, and everything boiling inside her--her terror, her anxiety, her disbelief, and her confusion--faded away to a profound exhaustion. She idly scrabbled around in the gravel beside the curb, her fingers scraping against the stone and curling around small pebbles, dirt, and some loose change. 

Eventually she dusted off her grimy hands, her eyelids drooping wearily and her vision blurring as she hunched over the curb. The handful of dirty coins she stuffed into her pocket, and stood up. 

When she lifted her head, nothing looked familiar. 

***


	5. Chapter 5

To soph: My name's Kiera, and I'm a recovering X-Files fan... ;-) No, seriously. The one time they ever dealt with time travel on the show, the episode was boring and uninspired, so I wrote my own... 

The website I referred to in my nifty little research blurb on the psychometric hypothesis didn't show up in the fic for some reason (look where it says "see for more details"). :-(  E-mail me if you have any questions. 

Dedicated to RiverStar, Sylphide, Emily, and daf9, and most of all, to my wonderful Vera for all her support and encouragement. She is truly an inspiration to me. 

***

Alison McGranney was fourteen years old, a round, dreamy girl with big, bouncy brown curls and bright eyes. Her little sister Stacey was skinner and livelier, her flyaway dark hair scattered all over her head as she scampered and scuttled about like a tiny, scared mouse. 

"Stacey, you just keep quiet and stay close, you hear me?" Alison grabbed Stacey's hand and held it tight, even as her little sister squirmed and scuffled her feet. "It's a big crowd out here and you get lost easy..."

"Aw, I only got lost once, and you found me at the hot dog stand, 'member?" Stacey whined, pouting as she was dragged along. 

"Yeah, I remember. I remember I got grounded for two whole weeks!" A swelling, bellowing roar rose from the crowd, cheers and loud calls crowding the air as hands waved and handkerchiefs fluttered. 

"Allie, why don't we go and stand on the stairs by the candy shop?"

"Hey, good idea, come on!" They raced down the street and clambered up the empty staircase, just as the soldiers appeared. Guns slung over one shoulder, caps tipped rakishly to one side, badges gleaming and heavy boots stomping, the troops marched down the street. Cries of "God bless America!" and "Come home safely, boys!" filtered through the incoherent torrent of noise. 

"Where they going, Allie?" Stacey swung over the railing of the shop, swinging her feet.

"Don't do that," Alison said automatically, picking her up and setting her safe on the steps. "They're going to Germany." 

"Where's that?"

"It's a far away place, where there's some bad person leading another big army and killing lots of people."

"Well, what's going to happen to our army?"

Alison cuffed her sister lightly, scoffing: "We're going to win, stupid, what do you think? Come on, let's get an ice cream."

They descended the steps. Stacey raced ahead and quickly vanished into the crowd; Alison let out an exasperated groan. "Stacey! Stacey, get back here!" 

She pushed past several people, shoving and jostling, and nearly fell over a woman next to her. The woman reeled backwards, looking stunned, and Alison felt a sudden surge of guilt. "Oh, I'm sorry, miss, I'm sorry!" The woman didn't answer, staring oddly at her. Alison scratched the back of her neck, at a loss for words, and then came up with a sudden inspiration. "Say, are you lost?"

The small blond woman, wearing an odd sort of heavy black coat, gave her a wild, wide-eyed look, let out a sharp shriek of laughter that sounded more like a cry, and quickly hurried off. Alison raised her eyebrows, rubbing her sunburnt arms. "Well, that was real nice of her... maybe she don't speak English... aw, Stacey, where'd you go? Stacey!"

***

The door to Eames's apartment opened with a click, and Goren stepped inside. Deakins peered in after him, his eyebrows folded in a worried crease as he glanced around. "Tell me what happened again?"

Looking more pale and strained than Deakins had ever seen him, Goren answered in a tight voice as he searched through her bedroom and bathroom. "I called her cell phone for the millionth time, and she answered. When I asked her where the hell she'd been all this time, she screamed and then started crying. Then the phone call was disconnected and all I got was an earful of static." He re-emerged. "There's no sign of a forced entry or any... any violence."

"Not that I can see," agreed Deakins. "Where do you think she is?"

"I haven't the faintest idea." Goren pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing tiredly—something he often did when he was worried, and not willing to show it. The shriek on the other end of the line had cut him through to the heart, a stab of terror that still made him shake. He wanted nothing more than to find Eames and wind his arms around her, to hold her until she stopped crying, because it seemed impossible that someone so... someone with such a bright smile could ever be crying. 

"If she doesn't reappear in another twelve hours, we'll start a missing person's case," Deakins was saying. "Goren?"

"Yeah, that sounds good." Goren shook his head and forced himself to focus as they walked back out the door. Another sharp click, and the sounds faded back into silence. 

***


	6. Chapter 6

This one's for Jael, because 1) she's amazing and 2) I just read her Christmas L&O fic and fell over laughing picturing McCoy as a (and I quote) "Viking on speed". Love you, Jael!  
  
***  
  
The wind tore at the paper, whipping it back into his face, as he held it up to the telephone pole. Goren smacked the flat of his hand against the poster and viciously drove a handful of tacks into it, securing it to the weathered wooden post.  
  
Posters with his partner's picture, and the details of her disappearance, were being put up all over New York. Officers of the NYPD were going through her apartment at that moment, rifling through her belongings in search of any clues; Deakins was personally monitoring every current case that filtered through the Major Case Squad, and was constantly on the phone asking for news.  
  
Goren had left early last night, thanks to Deakins's sympathetic indulgence. He had sealed himself up at home, refusing to answer the phone or door, and spent a sleepless night walking the floor. His limbs stiff in the morning, he had stumbled outside into the gray, wintry day cursing bitterly.  
  
The memory running through his mind, as relentless as the blood coursing through his veins, was that of their last phone call. There had been a note in Eames's frenzied, frantic laughter that had chilled him--something that made him think, however unwillingly, of his mother.  
  
His lips set in a tight, thin line, Goren drew out another poster and approached another telephone pole. Whatever it took, whatever he had to do, he would find her.  
  
***  
  
In between two shops--a jewelry store that glittered with diamonds and glistened with gold, and a pet store where birds twittered and goldfish whisked their fins--there was a very tiny park. It was a small stretch of pale green grass, soft and wispy as downy feathers, with a few wildflowers scattered here and there. There was an arbour of crisp, tangled ivy hanging over the meandering stone path, and a single wooden bench in the middle.  
  
Eames emerged from the dispersing crowd, saw the bench and sank onto it. She folded in on herself, crossing her arms over her stomach and hunching over. The world was blurring, lines fading into smudges and colours into blobs.  
  
A hand tapped her on the shoulder. "Excuse me, miss?"  
  
Eames nearly screamed--nearly. She caught herself in time, gulped down a quick shuddering breath, and looked up.  
  
A tall man in his thirties, with tousled brick-coloured hair and muddy brown eyes, stood in front of her. He had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his blue-grey suit and looked sheepish. "Do you happen to have a quarter I could borrow?"  
  
Eames groped around in her own pockets, fumbling until she fished out a coin. By kismet, coincidence, or sheer luck--she never stopped to think about it afterwards--it was the 1942 coin she had picked up minutes ago that shone dully in her palm.  
  
"Thanks, miss." The man nodded his head and wandered off, tossing the coin in the air and catching it deftly, whistling a jaunty tune.  
  
She closed her eyes, waiting, hoping against hope, her hands locked together in a white-knuckled grip...  
  
...and opened them again to the same scene. Clusters of people were still milling about on the streets, chattering and laughing brightly, while kids raced around each other with whoops and giggles. A car horn beeped; a street vendor swore fluently; someone released a yellow balloon and it sailed up into the sky, whirling and wobbling and soaring away.  
  
*** 


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you for your reviews!  
  
To Barbara: Alex hasn't gone crazy (yet...); the reason why she can't get back to her own time will become apparent in this chapter and the next. Just keep in mind that certain details are very important in this story ;-)  
  
To RiverStar: Although that's an intriguing idea, this part of the story was actually set in 1942, when the U.S. joined the Allied forces of World War II. I don't think Bobby was born yet :-) Perhaps she'll meet up with somebody related to Bobby, like Vera suggested...  
  
***  
  
Jack Sutherland strolled down the street, still humming to himself as he drew near the phone booth; his wife was waiting at home for this call. He mentally pictured her bustling around the kitchen, setting out plates and taking out dishes from the oven with her floppy white apron and her flowery mitts, and smiled contentedly.  
  
He stepped inside, squashing himself awkwardly into the small space as the door clanged shut behind him. Lifting the heavy receiver off the hook, he lifted his hand to slip the quarter into the slot.  
  
"Hey!" A balding guy, with tufts of grey hair and a sagging stomach, was banging loudly on the door. Jack turned about to glare at him and met a pale blue-eyed stare. "The phone's not working, buddy. Try another place."  
  
"Oh..." Jack's focus shifted to the phone, and for the first time he noticed there was no dial tone droning in his ears. "Uh, thanks. Wouldn't have noticed it... are you the technician?"  
  
"You could say that." The voice was as cool as the oddly blue eyes. "There's another phone booth just five minutes down the street. Can you walk that far?"  
  
Jack gave him an irritated look as he squeezed out past the door and brushed himself off. The stranger watched him stalk down the sidewalk, charging past the signs and shops, and nodded to himself before trundling off in the opposite direction.  
  
The phone booth was occupied by a giggling teenage girl who gushed and squealed into the receiver, so Jack leaned against a nearby building to wait. He tapped his foot lightly and fiddled with his loose sleeve, casually looking around with an air of bored indifference.  
  
***  
  
Eames sidestepped the passing people on the street, her breath coming in ragged sobs as panic tightened her throat. The stranger, the man who had taken the coin she picked up... where was he, where had he gone?  
  
In her blind fear, she hardly noticed where she was going. She wandered wildly, darting in one direction and then spinning around to hurtle in another.  
  
A black car came zooming down the road and swerved around the intersection, swooping and wobbling past the other cars amid a blare of horns and a swarm of angry curses. Drunken whooping and beer-soaked hands waving empty brown bottles emerged from the open windows.  
  
The car revved up the road, the motor gunning as it sped forward.  
  
Eames stood still to catch her breath, panting heavily. She swallowed, grimacing at the dry, scratchy feeling in her throat, and looked across the road. The light was green and maybe the stranger had gone to buy something on the other side...  
  
She took a quick breath and stepped out onto the street.  
  
***  
  
Two steps away from where Jack stood, a homeless man sat curled up on the sidewalk. His khaki pants were ragged and greasily stained; his frayed hair was grizzled and grey. He moved with the hesitant slowness of an old man, the wrinkles feathering across his withered face as he lifted his cap with a trembling hand. "Sir," he begged hoarsely, startling Jack into alertness, "please, sir, have you got some change?"  
  
"I don't have..." began Jack, then looked back at the girl in the phone booth. She was still prattling away, babbling about her boyfriend and the newest shade of her neon pink nail polish. "Yeah, sure, here you go."  
  
He flipped the quarter into the man's hat with a shrug and stuffed his hands back into his pockets. Turning around to go, Jack's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. "Hey!" he yelled loudly; the girl in the booth dropped the receiver with a startled shriek. "Miss! Miss, get out of the way, you're--"  
  
Eames paused in the middle of the crosswalk, her head whipping around at the sound of the familiar voice; the car screeched wildly as it skidded against the pavement, the tires burning with a faint stench--  
  
The old man reached into the hat, fishing around with hasty, shaky fingers, and picked up the shining quarter--  
  
--just as the car slammed into Eames and shuddered to a stop.  
  
***  
  
A group was gathered on the street, people crying out and talking in hushed tones as they huddled around the car. The driver was clutching the wheel with white knuckles, sobbing between spouts of tears, "I didn't see her! I didn't see her!"  
  
"Somebody call the police! Call an ambulance!"  
  
"Is she all right? She's not moving..."  
  
"Get a blanket, she needs to be warm!"  
  
Within minutes, the keening wail of an ambulance siren cut across the chatter of the crowd. Paramedics shoved their way through the mob and unloaded a stretcher from the back of the ambulance with a clatter and metallic clang.  
  
A police siren joined the cacophony of disjointed noise, and Goren and Deakins tumbled out of the car just as the paramedics fell to their knees in the middle of the crowd. "We got the call a few minutes ago," the chief medic called over his shoulder to the captain as he checked for a pulse. "The driver says she appeared suddenly in the middle of the road, looking like this."  
  
"I swear, I didn't see her!" cried the driver, still weeping convulsively. "I was driving along and, all of a sudden, she was just--lying there! I didn't hit her, I swear to God!"  
  
Goren advanced with his fingers coiled in a fist and his teeth gritted; Deakins held him back with a hand laid on his arm. "We're on the Major Case Squad in the NYPD," he informed the chief medic. "So is she--this is her partner, Detective Goren. Can we ride with her?"  
  
"I don't see why not," the medic agreed, nodding his head towards the ambulance. Goren went over and clambered inside, with Deakins on his heels, as the paramedics closed in on the frail figure of Eames, lying limp on the ground with blood forming a dark red halo around her blond hair.  
  
*** 


	8. Chapter 8

She was drifting in a semi-conscious state, half-awake and half-asleep. Everything faded in and out of focus; people kept appearing and disappearing all around her, hovering over her and then vanishing.   
  
Someone was sobbing in the background, and someone else was speaking softly and soothingly. Two voices were arguing loudly. The words were garbled and indistinct, reverberating dully and heavily in her throbbing head. She lifted her fingers to her forehead and touched a stream of blood, her fingers coming away soaked with red.   
  
The noise abruptly ceased, and the figures bending over her froze.   
  
Eames tried to speak, but her mouth wouldn't move. She swallowed her rising panic and burbled out a broken string of gibberish through her stiff, motionless lips.   
  
"She's hurt," muttered a man right behind her head. The words were suddenly as clear and sharp as ice shards, sending spikes of agony through her skull.   
  
"What does that mean?" retorted a woman. "It's not possible."   
  
"Look at her, she's bleeding. She knocked her head."   
  
"She got hit by a car--I saw it," interrupted another man. It was the voice of the homeless old man sitting by the phone booth.   
  
"Car? _C'est quoi, ça_?"   
  
"She's trying to come around--look at her eyes, they're fluttering."   
  
"If she hears us talking..."   
  
"She can't be hurt," the woman wailed, on the verge of tears. "She was supposed to take my place!"   
  
"No, mine!"   
  
"I saw her first! It was my right all along!"   
  
"Quiet," the first man ordered, and the voices obediently fell silent. "Look at her. There's blood running down her face. She's no good to any of us anymore."   
  
"But if they manage to heal her--"   
  
"If they heal her, we can decide whose place she'll take--and only then. Agreed?"   
  
A reluctant, resentful chorus of "Fine," "Sure," "All right," and "_Oui_".   
  
It was only after they had all disappeared that the thought came to Eames, though distorted and filtered through waves of pain: everyone that had been sitting in the small circle around her had the same oddly pale blue eyes.   
  
***   
  
The ambulance veered off to one side, pulling into the driveway in front of the hospital and braking to a halt. The paramedics jumped out of the front and hurried to the back, swinging open the doors.   
  
The patient was not looking good. Even with the oxygen mask, she was growing paler and slightly blue around the lips; her breath was slow and shallow, coming in faint, shuddering gasps. Her pulse was sluggish and sporadic, erratically skipping beats.   
  
They wheeled the stretcher in through the front doors, barging past the huddled clusters of people sitting in the waiting room. A swarm of doctors instantly descended on the prone body, alerted by the paramedic team's urgent cries, and spirited her away with a noisy babble of demands and commands.   
  
In the wake of the stretcher, two detectives surged into the waiting room. Deakins, striding swiftly past his subordinate, asked a few terse questions of the desk clerk and returned to Goren. "She's gone into intensive care," the captain said quietly. "They'll let us know if anything happens."   
  
Frustrated, anxious, and tense to the breaking point, Goren had a fleeting desire to strangle him. Instead he sank down onto one of the hard, stiff, uncomfortable plastic chairs and leaned his head into his hands. Deakins chose instead to pace nervously around, walking in long circles around the benches and seats.   
  
***   
  
Alex felt like she was floating, suspended in a sea of dim twilight. As she struggled against the growing emptiness, the words of the strangers sitting around her earlier kept echoing in her mind.   
  
She understood now; everything was clear. Those people--the ones gathered around her--they were drifting in and out of different times, like her. They had meant for her to take one of their places; the person whom she replaced would stay fixed in their own time afterwards, while she kept shifting and slipping around in time. That's why they had been so nice to her--to gain her favour. If she lived after this, they would decide whom to switch with her and she'd be trapped forever, sliding eternally between different time periods. If she didn't...   
  
Everything was clear. There was only one choice to be made.   
  
***   
  
Twenty minutes later, the chief doctor emerged from the emergency room and walked down the long hall as the others slowly filed out.   
  
Goren made no noise when the doctor told them, but got up after a few seconds and headed towards the bathrooms. Deakins stayed behind to shake the man's hand, thanking him for his effort, and then followed his detective.   
  
The bathroom door stood open as he stepped inside. "Goren? You there?"   
  
No answer. "Listen, I... uh... I just came to say, I'm giving you the week off. We can handle the arrangements." Still nothing but silence. Awkwardly, "Goren, she probably never felt a thing. They told me it all happened fairly quickly."   
  
Deakins waited for a minute or two, added in a soft voice, "I'm sorry. I know what she meant to you," and then drew a long breath and left.   
  
Alone in the bathroom stall, his face hidden in his hands, Goren bent over double as he finally succumbed to a bitter, agonized flood of tears.   
  
***   
  
I can already hear the anguished cries of "Eames! You killed her!" as I write this--and before you all kill _me_, wait. It's not over yet--there's a coda to this story. Remember my promise near the end of "Rhapsody no. 1"?   
  



	9. Chapter 9

Eames nestled her head in her hand, a few tousled strands of hair slipping through her fingers. It was a drowsy sort of evening; the sky was thick with heavy clouds, and the trees were sighing gently in the soft wind.  
  
She trailed her spoon in a lazy spin amid the bubbles of frothy foam, and then took a sip of her coffee--still hot enough to scorch the tongue. She leaned back in her chair and stretched out her legs; the café was tiny, a crowd of tables and a clutter of chairs squeezed into a tight spot, but quiet.  
  
The doorbell chimed and the door swung open behind her, wood knocking hollowly on wood as the hinges squeaked. A tall man wearing a thick black overcoat and heavy, clumping boots entered, going past her in silence as he strode up to the counter.  
  
Eames stared at him for a moment, her gaze curious and a little apprehensive. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a little warning bell was ringing with all its might. She couldn't quite place his face or his appearance, but something about him was wrong, something...  
  
He met her gaze coolly with his own as he ordered a coffee and perched himself on a stool.  
  
She turned away and settled down in her chair again, idly leafing through a stray newspaper scattered all over the table. The pages rustled as she flipped back and forth, her head bent intently over the paper as she read.  
  
The man brushed past her as he went back out, clutching his coffee cup close. Something hard slipped out of his pocket and fell to the floor with a soft thud, flopping open and flinging loose change everywhere; it was his battered leather wallet.  
  
Eames looked up from her paper, caught a glimpse of it lying at her foot and bent to pick it up, raising her right hand to signal to the stranger--  
  
--and then stopped. Her uplifted hand froze in the air, the slender fingers slowly curling in on themselves, as she straightened her back and righted herself, slumping back into her seat.  
  
Bewildered, she gaped in confusion at her hands and the newspaper behind them, the little black print blurring into faint smudges as she flexed her fingers. The man had disappeared through the door, was rapidly heading down the street.  
  
With a sudden gesture of decision, Eames got to her feet, slung her purse over her shoulder, and plunked down some money on the table with a muffled thud. She quickly hurried outside and off in the opposite direction, towards the bus stop.  
  
When the stranger returned in urgent haste, bursting through the doors and staring wildly around with pale blue eyes, she was long gone.  
  
***  
  
See? She didn't die after all! :-)  
  
The end! Thanks to everybody who reviewed--you made this author deliriously happy and very proud. I hope you all get wonderful reviews for the rest of your lives! :-D 


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